Mortal Apollo In Heaven
by guineamania
Summary: The shots fired and everything fell black ... but what if that wasn't the end? Enjolras and Grantaire's life in the after life begins but it is not how they expected. Request from ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo


_**3/5/13**_

**This is a request one shot for ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo! Sorry for the long wait mate but it is finally here for you!**

**Mortal Apollo in Heaven**

It was all dark. Not just dark, nothing like a night in Paris kind of dark; pitch black nothingness kind of dark. Enjolras could feel things but yet he couldn't. The limbo in-between life and death is a very strange place. He was alive yet he wasn't. He could feel the wind against his face but yet couldn't feel his heart beat in his chest. Maybe this was hell; instead of the flames and devils everyone thought it to be, hell was just nothingness. He didn't want to go to hell. Enjolras had tried all his live to be a devout catholic. He had killed people but that was either in self-defence or on a crusade for freedom; those surely could not be punishable. Voices whispered doubts into his mind and for once they pierced his marble exterior. He was no longer marble; he was cracked and broken stone. _You were never going to beat them. Your hopeless ideals were the mockery of Paris. The people would never rise for a pompous rick boy like you._ The words stung his heart and tore at his soul. _You lead them all to their deaths_. A sob choked in his throat. It was all true; he had killed them all. Combeferre, his guide; Joly, a promising young doctor; Jehan, the little poet. He killed them all with his recklessness. "Apollo, please say you are there Apollo," a voice pleaded; it resonated stronger than the others and Enjolras felt his consciousness drift towards the friendly presence in his lost mind.

Enjolras blinked his tired eyes open to find himself staring at the familiar ceiling of the Café Musain. He was sure he had to be dead but it was strange that either heaven or hell looked remarkably similar to 19th Century France. He slowly sat up but as he tried to stand the lower half of his body would not move an inch. He tried again but his legs were like blocks of stone. "Thank lord!" the voice exclaimed and finally clicked into place in his head. It was Grantaire, the drunken cynic. The man in question appeared in front of him; expect this didn't look like the Grantaire he knew. His eyes were no longer the shimmering brown that flared when in a debate and his brown waves hung limply across his right eye. His face was porcelain white and the two bullet holes in his chest stood out in a blazing red. Well that answered his question about being dead. Grantaire's shocking appearance prompted Enjolras to examine himself closer. To say he looked worse than Grantaire would have been a gross understatement to say the least. Eight bullet holes tore open his torso and stained the rest of his chest a vivid crimson. Enjolras tried to move his legs again but nothing would respond despite his frantic attempts. "R ... I can't move my legs," he whispered stretching forward to touch the lumps of stone.

"When they shot us," he said, the words feeling uncomfortable in his mouth. "You fell through the window and dislocated both your hips," the awkward drunkard tried to explain. Words remained unsaid on the tip of Enjolras' tongue as his battered mind tried to comprehend what the drunkard was saying. "I have relocated them but they may be paralysed for a little. I have no idea how everything works here," he mumbled still staring out of the window. Enjolras looked up and out of the window as well. Everything was calm and peaceful like the real Paris streets would never be. There were no carriages, no people running through the streets. All was quiet; it felt wrong, Paris was not supposed to be quiet.

"Where is everyone?" Enjolras whispered as he was unable to muster the passion that usually filled his being.

"They are all gone. All the bodies, blood, guns; they are all gone," Grantaire mumbled still not looking Enjolras in the eye. Enjolras nodded and propped himself up against the wall. He felt no pain. You would think that would be a relief but it just constantly reminded him of his grand failure.

"Why did you turn yourself in?" Enjolras asked, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen between them.

"I was going to die so I might as well have died by your side," he shrugged but did not move from his place by the shattered window.

"But you could have lived R, why throw your life away?" he asked with slowly growing confidence. "You don't believe in our cause so why die for it, Nicolas?" he asked and Grantaire winced at the casual use of his much hated Christian name.

"How many times have I told you not to call me that," he moaned, resting his right arm on the window sill. His left still swung limply by his side and was swelling at the top of his bicep.

"The number of times I have told you to stop drinking," Enjolras replied and Grantaire replied with a sigh.

"Touche," he admitted.

"So why?" Enjolras persisted.

"Because I cannot live without you Julien! Is that what you wanted to hear?" Grantaire exclaimed finally turning to face him. "I wanted to die by your side because without you my life is nothing. You are my sun and my Apollo. I thought there was no afterlife so I thought that I would die then that would be it. I would have spent all my time with you and my life will be complete. But now as soon as you find the others I will be discarded to spend eternity alone without even the liquor for comfort this time," tears began welling up in his eyes and Grantaire sunk to the floor, finding himself next to Enjolras.

"W-why didn't, you say," Enjolras stuttered at Grantaire's outburst.

"Well, would you have lis…" Grantaire started but was suddenly silenced by Enjolras' lips pressing against him.

"Shut up R," Enjolras whispered before pressing his lips again Grantaire's again.


End file.
